I haven't fucked much with the past, but I've fucked plenty with the

future. Over the skin of silk are scars from the splinters of stations and

walls I've caressed. A stage is like each bolt of wood, like a log of

Helen, is my pleasure. I would measure the success of a night by the way

by the way by the amount of piss and seed I could exude over the columns

that nestled the P.A. Some nights I'd surprise everybody by skipping off

with a skirt of green net sewed over with flat metallic circles which

dazzled and flashed. The lights were violet and white. I had an ornamental

veil, but I couldn't bear to use it. When my hair was cropped, I craved

covering, but now my hair itself is a veil, and the scalp inside is a

scalp of a crazy and sleepy Comanche lies beneath this netting of the

skin. I wake up. I am lying peacefully I am lying peacefully and my knees

are open to the sun. I desire him, and he is absolutely ready to seize me.

In heart I am a Moslem; in heart I am an American; in heart I am Moslem,

in heart I'm an American artist, and I have no guilt. I seek pleasure. I

seek the nerves under your skin. The narrow archway; the layers; the

scroll of ancient lettuce. We worship the flaw, the belly, the belly, the

mole on the belly of an exquisite whore. He spared the child and spoiled

the rod. I have not sold myself to God.